


Inadequate

by SewageKidz



Category: Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Underfell Sans, but it still works??, can i tag this as hurt comfort? i think i can, i mean you're hurting and he comforts u, sans isnt the best at comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SewageKidz/pseuds/SewageKidz
Summary: reader feels bad about their writing and uf!sans comforts them. reader's gender is up to interpretation





	Inadequate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HyperBones (RainbowPreCum)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowPreCum/gifts).



> for a cutie on tumblr: catpajamas.tumblr.com (aka hyperbones on ao3)  
> friendly reminder that my requests are open  
> feel free to hit up my ask box at sewagekidz.tumblr.com <3 <3  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> support me on ko-fi: http://ko-fi.com/sewagekidz

You sit at your computer, head in your hands as you glance at the clock for the tenth time within the past two minutes.

4:19am.

4:19am.

Oh look, now it’s 4:20am.

You groan and rest your head on your desk. Too bad you don’t have a blunt to smoke your troubles away, ha.

Your eyes hurt. Your hands are freezing. You ran out of coffee more than three hours ago, too lazy to leave your desk to make more. Tonight’s just…one of those nights. At least that’s what you tell yourself, pretending it’s not another insipid, wordless night filed into your long history of insipid, wordless nights. You can’t write for the life of you, but that’s nothing new. Maybe it’s more than a lack of inspiration. Maybe its more than lack of motivation. You’ve always felt this way. Inadequate. _Less._ Maybe the thing that’s lacking is you.

Your story is garbage. Your characters are one dimensional and predictable. The plot is flimsy and full of continuity errors. You’ve used the word “soft” 62 times within the past 180 pages. People are going to hate this anyway so why do you even bother? There is nothing to like about the things you write. You’re mediocre at best and have the vocabulary of a 3rd grader. _You_ lack _talent._

You run your fingers through your hair like a comb, letting out an agitated sigh.

You hate this. Is this all you’re capable of? Forgettable mediocrity? Ha. Probably.

You can’t produce anything of decent quality on a good day, but right now everything you do feels…inadequate. And it’s eating you alive now more than ever because your deadline is approaching and this isn’t even near presentable. You wish you could get an extension, or maybe just not have deadlines at all. Or maybe just drop the pen in the trashcan and walk away. You’ve got too much to write and too little to say. Or rather you’ve got a whole lot of nothing spilling onto the pages. Either way you can’t let anyone see this disaster you call a story.

You take a deep breath and sigh, rubbing your temples.

Sometimes you wonder why you don’t just chuck your computer out the window. Or yourself. Maybe you should just quit pretending like this is going somewhere. Everything you create is utter trash and everyone thinks so, so what’s the point? You hang your head, teeth gritted, fists clenched. You didn’t ask to be like this. But you are. You are. This is what you are.

Your swim through a sea of self-deprecating thought is interrupted when you notice you’re crying all over your keyboard. You push yourself away from the computer and wipe your eyes quickly. Great. Now you’re all teary eyed because you can’t handle anything ever. You try to stand, but your legs feel like they’re made of nothing but those crinkled brown leaves that pile together in the damp nook of sidewalks.

Your knees buckle almost instantly, causing you to stumble into your chair and knock it over. It hits the floor with a loud thud but you’ve already caught yourself and begun pacing, shaking and sniffling in the most unflattering way. Your breathing grew more and more labored as the tears rushed from your eyes, too fast to be stopped. _Okay. Calm down (y/n). Calm down._

You can’t calm down.

Tears pour down your cheeks with no hope of stopping; no matter how many times you wipe them away, more meet the back of your trembling hands. You didn’t even notice but you’re backed up against a wall now. You do the only natural thing and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor in the dark with nothing but the glow of your monitor to illuminate the room. The tears still refuse to relent.

“you uh…you ok?”

There’s a hand on your shoulder, a deep voice rumbling in your ear. Naturally, you jump.

You turn your head sharply, body tense. You find sans hunched over next to you.

Oh. Right. You’re in your bedroom and he was sleeping a few feet away from your desk on the mattress. Of course he’d wake up after you knocked over a chair and burst into tears.

“aww sweetheart…” he drawls when he notices you’re still crying. Is he high? Maybe he’s just really sleepy still. You don’t have time to dwell on that as he combs a lock of hair behind your ear. Or, well, at least he tries to with his unsteady hands. Before you know it, he’s sitting with his legs crisscrossed beside you. You can tell he’d probably rather go back to sleep—if he was even asleep--but he stays right there anyways.

“ight, what’s up buttacup?” he asks, rubbing his sockets.

It takes you a minute to pull the words from your gut, to open your mouth, to breathe. All the while he just sits there under the pale blue light, jaw tight with uncertainty, ruby pupils peering at you with something akin to concern; he’s being uncharacteristically patient. You’re crying and blubbering incoherently with your knees pressed fast to your chest when he stretches his hand out to you. His whole disposition is cautious, quiet as his hand hovers; retreating, pressing forward, hanging in the air as if suspended in time.

The glint of his golden tooth and the darkness etched under those hollow yet fearsome eyes might scare someone who doesn’t know him. Once upon a time it would’ve made you question what his intentions are as he reaches toward you. Is he sick of you too? Is he going to yell at you for crying and waking him up? Or maybe he’ll hit you because you’re taking too long to speak. Will he hurt you? No. No. Not anymore.

His soul is warm, weathered, aching. And yours is cool, too cool; it’s been torn by time. Both of you have walked through hurricanes, had chaos kiss your souls and leave burns that stung like vinegar on an open wound. Both of you have been swept away by winds too strong and have stood removed from the thunderstorm that is love. You’ve been afraid of him. He’s been afraid of everything. That’s why you’re so close now. You understand. You both understand each other. And there is comfort in that.

He’s just never been good at comforting you. Or anyone, really. He never knows the right thing to say. He’s ungainly and a bit of a coward. And crying has a tendency to make him feel uncomfortable. You try to stop, for his sake if nothing else, but you can’t. His suspended hand eventually reaches you. He pats your head and waits for you to cry yourself out.

“I…” you finally begin after some endless stretch of time passes, sniffling and wiping snot on your sweater’s sleeve, “should I just quit? W-writing I mean…” your voice is soft, barely loud enough to even consider a whisper, but he hears you.

He seems as if he’s mulling it over, absentmindedly twirling a wisp of your hair around his bony finger. After a moment he just shrugs his shoulders.

“i uh, thatz not really somethin ya should be askin me, y’know?”

You sniffle again, tracing over the lines in the wood flooring with your fingernail. You scoot over to him a bit; your hands and shoulders just barely brush. He doesn’t flinch though, so you move into his lap. He blushes softly but makes room for you, wrapping a skeletal arm around your waist. He’s shy and tentative in his movements, when it really counts anyway. And that’s what you like about him.

Rough sex is easy; he takes what he wants then. But this? This requires feeling. This requires gentleness. You get to see something more docile, tender, something no one else gets to see, and you cherish it always. You lean against him, feeling his breath fall over the dip in your collarbone, dancing over your neck, then comes the undulation of his ribcage against your back, steady, like waves. You still don’t know how that works. He doesn’t even breathe right? You trace more lines in the wood by your feet.

“I…like writing; I _need_ it. Without it I think I’ll just fall apart.”

“…but?” he asks.

“I’m not good at it? I need it more than I need to breathe and yet I’m terrible at it. And I’m afraid that if I stop doing it the words will build up inside my lungs and I’ll just suffocate??”

He laughs sarcastically as he laces your hair between his phalanges. It takes you a moment to realize he’s braiding it together for you. He’s always liked playing with your hair; he does it often enough that you’ve taken it to be a sign of his affection for you.

“words aren’t tangible, and they can’t fill up yer lungs, babydoll.”

You roll your eyes while he grins behind you.

“Come on I’m being serious. It’s just…draining the life out of me trying to be a good writer, trying to get something acceptable on the paper to meet these deadlines. To make people happy. I’m just…laughable huh?”

“tch. fuck makin people happy. if it’s that bad then just don’t do it.”

You chuckle dryly. “yeah if only it were that easy.”

He says nothing for a moment, resting his chin on your head as he finishes the braid. His hand returns to your waist and you run your thumb over his knuckles, feeling the ridges and curves of his bones.

“does it even matter? good, not good, writing, no writing. pleasin people. tryin. it’ll uh, all be dust one day y’know? human lives are short, irrelevant. what ya do with em even more so. ain’t nothin in this life worth stressin over.”

“Pfft, says the most stressed out guy I know.”

He only lets out a little “heh” in response.

You sigh.

“I just…I don’t know. I feel like…garbage right now.”

“aw c’mon sweets, ya can’t be that, i’m already fillin up that position.” He winks.

“Hey, you’re not garbage.” You pout, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“sure am, heh heh,” he let out a little sigh, “look, angelface, the world is shit, anythin it produces ain’t gonna be much better. but, uh, ya ain’t tha worst thing out y’know? yous uh, yous alright. so stop tryin ta be “good” at everything. why try ta be what ya already are anyway?”

Your face brightens, as if his words stirred embers under your skin and gave your cheeks a soft flush. Sans’ compliments always make your stomach flutter. He’s usually not good at compliments either, you suppose, but he tries, and sometimes he says something really endearing and sweet.

“an uh…hey,” he continues, drawing your attention again with his groggy voice, “if it means anythin at all, i…” he takes a moment to find the words, face heating up with magic, “i think yer writin’s nice, so uh, no need ta quit if tha only reason is ya think it’s bad.”

You crane your head back to look up at him as he averts his eyes. Aww, he’s really blushing now.

“You…you’ve read my stuff?” you must look so starry eyed as you ask.

“w-well uh, sometimes. i mean, i was curious about what yer always writin so late in the night,” He rests his chin on your head again as you look down, “anyway i still think givin this much of a damn is pointless. puttin that much effort into day-to-day shit only fer it ta be erased dun make sense.”

“…So you think I’m wasting my time?”

“didn’t say that, just said yer thinkin too hard about this. ya do it cuz ya like it, ain’t that enough? don’t try an complicate shit.”

There’s a silence in the air, the kind of silence passed between two complicated lovers at 4am. You don’t know what to say to him. He glances around the room as if he’s looking for something in the dark. Suddenly, there’s a spark of red in his endless void of an eye socket; it swirls, billows, but it’s brief. He waves a finger in the air, opening one of his drawers and bringing something over to you two.

“look, just. take a break? the uh, “inspiration,” er whatever, will come eventually right?” he mutters as he starts fiddling with the things he dropped into your lap.

You smile a little, nestling into his arms, letting his warmth envelope you.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you just need to get high at 4am with a skeleton in the dark and forget everything, just until the sun comes up at least.

It takes you a minute to see what he’s fumbling with as he leans over your shoulder. Oh. So that’s what he wanted. It’s probably past 4:20am by now though, shame he missed the opportunity. Never a wrong time to get high though. You watch carefully, almost entranced by the way his fingers move to fill and roll the paper. By the time you catch yourself staring, he’s already rolling it up tightly. He lets you seal it with a flick of your tongue.

The smoke makes you feel light, hazy, like lucid dreaming. It calms you down, but you still can’t shake the thought of your writing being terrible. Of _you_ being terrible. But, then, sans said he likes your writing. He said you’re just thinking too much. That you shouldn’t try so hard. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re just over thinking it.

“…Do you really think I’m a good writer?” you ask after a moment, exhaling a plume of smoke into the dark.

“heh heh, tha best there is babydoll.” he giggles, taking the joint from in between your fingers, “yer fuckin heaven sent. so don’t think, don’t-don’t try so hard. don’t try at all. just. fuck. i dunno. do what feels right, whenever it feels right.” He shrugs his shoulders, taking a long drag.

You want to argue, but you can’t. You can only laugh softly to yourself, slouching further into his inviting warmth.

“You know you give the best advice when you’re smashed.” You hum as you inelegantly grab hold of his skull, pulling him down into a gentle, smoky kiss.

 


End file.
